


Dance with me, Darling.

by shakespearewhore



Category: Original Work
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Self-Insert, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28519566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespearewhore/pseuds/shakespearewhore
Summary: You’ve tracked down your long time nemesis, and he asks you to dance.- no smut unfortunately but very dramatic-mentions of murder-a couple of cheeky euphemismsAlso this is for goobzoop because I read your fics just constantly and I love you.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Dance with me, Darling.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goobzoop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goobzoop/gifts).



“A dance perhaps?”

You don’t need to turn around to know exactly who it is. After all, you’ve been hunting him for over six years. Countless close encounters have familiarised you with his every characteristic, every trait, every aspect of his personality, and his voice, and his face, anything that could distinguish him from any disguise, or act. You know him better, perhaps, than you know yourself, for you never really bother to delve too far into your own soul, because that would be of no help to anyone, now would it? 

“A dance, my dear?” You ask, turning your head but not your body, so that your faces are tantalisingly close, noses only inches apart, as your eyes meet his.

Of course, you’d expected him to ask, maybe that was why you spent so much money on the dress, however much you insisted to yourself it was just so you could blend in properly with the aristocrats. The ballroom was filled with prim, snobbish ladies in expensive jewellery, waltzing to Tchaikovsky, with various wealthy men. Of course this is where you’d find him, the dramatic bastard. 

“Why of course, Darling. I think I owe you the pleasure, after all.” 

Cheeky too.

“Ah, ~my~ pleasure, is it? I think you’d find yourself lucky to grace these floors with me, sweetie.”

You’re not exactly sure when, or even how the sarcastic terms of endearment came into play, but you’ve been teasing each other like this for a very long time.

“When I look so stunning?” He quips, “Never.”

You break eye contact to look down at his suit. Classic black trousers and jacket, fitted black shirt, unbuttoned at the top, no bow tie. He did look, well, really rather good, actually. Your gaze lingers too long.

“So you agree.”

“Narcissist.”

“In fairness, my dear, your dress is just to die for.” He says, dropping his eyes down, then dragging his gaze torturously slowly back up over your body. 

“Then I shall make sure you do,” you retort.

“Witty little darling, aren’t we? But so violent. Is there any need? I mean, you’ve killed more men than I have! And here I thought I was the villain.”

“I only kill bad men. Men like you.”

“Are you saying I’ve been a naughty boy, Agent?”

You suppress the urge to smile at the euphemism. 

“How could I ever make it up to you?” His arm reaches round your front, placing his hand on your hip so as to turn you to face him properly. You allow it, and rest your hands on his shoulders. 

“Let me win you over with a dance, my dear Agent. One dance before you push me roughly against a wall, pinning me down, and handcuff me.”

This time you can’t help but give a small smile at his joke.

“One last dance.”

“Maybe not our last ever, darling. Just until next time. I shall be sure to dance with you again,”

Like you said, dramatic bastard.

“Well then, why should I dance with you now, if it will not be our last chance?”

“To show all these posh little brats how it’s done, of course.”

Your eyes sweep over the waltzing couples. You two really could teach them a thing about style.

“Good enough reason for me, my sweet.”

And then you’re dancing, eyes still locked, though his gaze keeps slipping down to your lips. He’s doing it purposefully of course, he must be, in a weak attempt to distract you, perhaps. His hands are now placed on the small of your back, as you step gracefully, beautifully, perfectly in time with the enchanting music. 

You don’t have to count the beats in your head anymore, not like when you were a kid, learning all those fancy dances, to prevent wealthier company from seeing you as just another clumsy commoner. You remember obsessing over practicing accents, desperate to be rid of your lower class pronunciations, striving to impress, trying as hard as you could to move up the vicious chain of the the class system. No poor kid was going to get into Oxford, not back then. But you did. You recall how hard you worked to get there, to fulfil your dreams of academia. Only to be recruited, right out of university. To be molded into the perfect weapon. The government’s assault rifle. The very government You had grown up despising. Despising for their unfairness, their carelessness, their ignorance. You’re sure there was more you wanted to do with your life. You’re sure you were trying to make a difference, once.

You realise there is a tear dripping down your cheek, your head is resting on his chest; and the song has changed, now a slower, more romantic tune. 

“You know,” You realise, “I’m not even sure.”

“Sure of what, my love?”

“I don’t know why I’m fighting you.”

It was true. You’ve spent so long caught up in the playful rivalry, and in the hero/villain dynamic, that you had no idea what crimes you were actually supposed to be arresting him for. You don’t think you were ever told. You just follow orders. And you were ordered to catch him, so that’s what you had been doing. What if you spent all this time flirting with a terrorist? Falling for a terrorist? Though you supposed you might have heard in the news at some point if a dashing, young psychopath was on the loose.

Then, you look up as he stops dancing, and realise he’s starting to chuckle, to laugh, unapologetically, as the words sink in. The more you think about it, it makes you start to laugh too. It’s quite frankly ridiculous! All the death threats, the teasing, the playful words, and god, all the fighting! Your ongoing game of cat and mouse, for all this time, and you didn’t even know why? Then you are instantly sobered as you remember his earlier statement.

“You must have killed though.”

“How do you figure?”

“You said, earlier, ‘you’ve killed more men than I have’. And I’ve killed too many, on this job.”

“I’ve never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

“Who then? Who deserves it?”

“Ive been an enemy of the bourgeoisie for a long time.”

“The rich? You’re an enemy of...?” 

Your idiocy dawns on you. You’ve been fighting for the wrong side. For so long, all you had wanted was to fight the system, to help the needy, and yet here you stood, protector of the undeserving. 

“Congratulations.” You say, smiling. “You’ve accomplished your mission. You’ve won me over with a dance.” You recite your fatal mistake, explaining your misunderstanding, your naivety. 

“I’m well and truly an idiot. Will you still have me join you, allow me to help battle the inequalities of our nation?”

“It be my honour to have your spectacular skillset on this side, my dear, truly an asset to the team.”

You smile. Finally you feel that you have made the right decision, that you will now be able to fight for the cause, that you had been so very close to losing sight of.

One more thing was bothering you, however.

“Why are we here?” You question. “I tracked you here, what business could you have with these people? I mean they are certainly rich, but surely not rich enough to class as the top percent?”

“I don’t have any business with them.” He replies. “Though we’re here for the same thing.”

“But these people are just here to dance.”

“Here to dance with the one they love, my sweet.”

His words register. He had just come here to dance with you. And now you could, with no guilt, no threats, no deadlines, dance freely.

“Dance with me, Darling.”


End file.
